


Tonight (let's get out of this town)

by maybe_we_were



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt Scott McCall, Late Night Conversations, Nightmares, Post-Allison's Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_we_were/pseuds/maybe_we_were
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Stiles nor Lydia can sleep the entire night without nightmares post-Nogitsune.  Sooner, rather than later, they realize they have (and need) each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight (let's get out of this town)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first time writing Stiles and Lydia, so I will apologize now if they are OOC. I really, really, love and ship this couple, so I'm super excited for tonight's episode (which starts in 2 minutes!!!!). I hope you enjoy, it was just a little something I felt needed to be added after season 3 and before the start of season 4. 
> 
> Of course, these lovely characters belong to Jeff Davis.

It’s a week after Allison’s death, a week after Stiles was freed from the Nogitsune’s powers, and Lydia still can’t sleep for a full night. 

This night is much like the last, reliving the exact moment she felt Allison’s life slip away, the cry tearing out of her throat in both prediction and mourning.  What wakes her up is her own screaming, which has become painful due to its repetition night after night.  Trying to go back to sleep is pointless now, even though the clock on her bedside table says it’s two in the morning.

She lies flat on her back, taking steadying breaths, and tries to figure out the most productive way to spend her time awake.  As she’s thinking, her eyes register an odd glow lighting up the room, followed by a familiar ringtone.  She reaches over, wondering why she’s not surprised to be getting a call at this time of the night.  She must be used to them, after the past few years of being hunted and hunting in the supernatural realm. 

Fumbling to press the correct spot, she swipes her finger over the “Accept” button and holds the phone to her ear.

“Stiles?” she whispers, cuddling back down into the warmth of her covers. 

“Hey Lydia.” 

His voice sounds groggy, almost as if he had just woken up.

“Hey,” she replies, “what’s going on?”

She waits to hear his response, which comes a few seconds later. 

“Well, I couldn’t sleep and I know this sounds really strange, but do you want to go for a drive?  I can pick you up.  Unless you don’t want to go…which, you might not because I woke you up at two o’clock on a Friday night.  Though I guess that makes it Saturday morning, really-”

She cuts off his rambling before he really gets on a roll.

“Stiles, don’t worry about it.  Really.  Just come pick me up.” 

She hears a relieved sigh on the other end of the line before he tells her he’ll be outside of her house in five minutes.  It only takes her two minutes to fling off her covers and throw on a pair of sweatpants, which leaves her time to tiptoe down the stairs, past Prada and her mom’s room, and slip on her boots.  She steps out of the front door as the jeep’s headlights cross the front of the house.  She hurries over to the passenger door, which pops open seemingly on its own.  Watching as Stiles moves the top half of his body back over the gear shift, she realizes that he pushed it open.  She steps up and slides into the seat, buckling up so that Stiles can pull out. 

As he backs out, she takes the time to study him.  His hair is messy, which actually looks really good on him with his slightly longer brown hair, and he’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, pushed up to his forearms. 

“Hey Lyd,” he greets, using the nickname only he can get away with.  His hello breaks her out of her once over of him.  They are moving through the streets of Beacon Hills, headed towards who knows where.  She’s not concerned though, with Stiles behind the wheel.

“Stiles,” she replies, “to what pleasure do I owe this evening drive?” 

She’s trying to make light of whatever is plaguing Stiles to the point where he can’t sleep, hoping that her open demeanor makes him feel comfortable.  He visibly hesitates at her question, fiddling with the knobs for the heater, before chancing a glance in her direction.

“Let’s just say I haven’t been sleeping very well.  Sometimes a drive helps, but for some reason I felt like I needed to ask you to go this time.  Sorry about that, by the way, I wasn’t even sure if it was the best idea to call or not.” 

One hand leaves the steering wheel to run through his hair and down the back of his neck. 

“Really, Stiles, it’s ok.  I was up anyways.”  There’s a pause while she thinks of the best way to ask the question that popped into her mind.

“Does counting your fingers not work anymore?”

She feels the jeep swerve a little bit, Stiles turning his head in her direction in a rush.  His wide-eyed look and open mouth suggest he’s surprised that she knew how he reminded himself that he was real.  The words that come out of his mouth next confirm her suspicions.

“I- I didn’t think anyone noticed I did that,” he stammers. 

“I noticed.”

She lowers her voice to a whisper, so he doesn’t feel that she’s judging him.  It’s like she’s trying to not scare him away with her words.  Still, her gaze catches him just as unconsciously as his catches her, which is how she noticed his newest habit.    

He lets out a harsh breath, “Well, it used to work.  But sometimes it isn’t enough.”

Stiles falls silent, paying attention to the roads which she’s guessing will lead them to the Beacon Hills Preserve.  Although the heat is on, the cool air that comes in through the open cracks in the window makes Lydia shiver, her short sleeved shirt not cutting it in the cool evening.

Stiles’ hand reaches over and tugs on something on the seat behind her, before passing her whatever he retrieved. 

He hands over what she recognizes as his lacrosse sweatshirt, a deep maroon hoodie with _STILINSKI_ written on the back with big block letters and his jersey number, _24_ , underneath.  As she slides her arms through the sleeves, they both speak.

“Thanks,” tumbles off her pink lips just as he says, “I threw a blanket in the back in case you got cold.”

She thinks it’s sweet that he thought ahead.  Of course Stiles was, as always, looking out for her. 

She rests her hands on her lap, watching the moonlight pass through the trees overhead.  They reach the outlook where Stiles puts the jeep in park.  His honey brown eyes settle on her.

“You didn’t mention you were already awake when I called.  What was keeping you up?”

The concern is evident in his voice.  His serious gaze is too much to handle, so she stares out the passenger window while she answers. 

“I was thinking about Allison.  My mind keeps replaying what happened every time I try to sleep.”

Her explanation is enough, her eyes filling with tears.  She looks back over in his direction to discover his eyes have softened.

“Lydia,” he starts, his voice scratchy, “I am _so_ sorry.  If all of this hadn’t happened with me, Allison would still be here.  And now it’s like your mind is trying to repress what happened.  The hurt that accompanies losing two people you care about, it’s indescribable.” 

Warm skin touching her own startles her.  Stiles’ hand slides on top of hers, a gesture of comfort and steadiness.  She flips her hand over under his and he immediately interlocks their fingers. 

“It’s not your fault, Stiles.  The Nogitsune may have looked like you, but there isn’t _any_ part of you that would ever hurt people.  And we almost lost you, too, you know,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. 

“If that had happened, I’d…I’d be devastated.”

His eyes flash in understanding, an echo of a sentiment from a little over a year ago.  There’s silence for a minute, then Stiles clears his throat. 

“I’m back now and I’m not going anywhere, so you’re stuck with me.” 

The goofy grin on his face makes her laugh, which is what she’s sure he intended.  He lets go of their fingers to put the jeep in reverse.  She’s amazed by the warmth of his hand, considering less than a week ago, his body was cold and weak.  He’s warm though, so warm, and now she’s the one who is always cold.

She misses his touch more than she should, but only for a second as his hand leaves the gear shift in search of hers.  She meets him halfway, and he rests their tangled fingers on his thigh. 

The ride back to her house is spent in quiet conversation, mostly revolving around school, scientific theories – _how she missed that_ \-- and lastly, Scott.  Neither have seen the leader of the pack, who is struggling through the grief on his own.  The red-eyed alpha prefers to be alone, unlike herself and the other human pack member driving the jeep.  She muses how they are drawn to one another, like opposite ends of two magnets, each equally strong and complimentary of one another.  Words like _emotional tether_ and _someone who can bring you back_ run through her mind. 

They pull into her driveway and sit there for a second, the craving for the other’s presence strong, especially in the darkness of the night. 

“I should head in,” Lydia says reluctantly.

The dark sky signals that it’s still late, about 3:15 based on the clock on the dashboard. 

“Yeah, you need some sleep.  Thanks for the company.”

The crooked smile he shoots her is her favorite. 

“Anytime.”

She hopes he realizes she means it.

She’s just about to pull the door open when he catches her attention again with a clearing of his throat. 

“Lydia,” he starts, “the next time you’re awake, or can’t sleep or whatever, call me.”

It’s not a demand, but his tone is firm, no doubt something he learned from his dad, but the low timbre of his voice makes it compassionate.

She gives him a small smile of acknowledgement and slips out of the jeep and in her front door.

 

 

* * *

 

When she wakes up the next night, shaking and upset, she doesn’t even hesitate to call.  The line picks up after the first ring, his voice quiet and soothing.

“I’ll be there in five.”


End file.
